To Look Back Is to Lose Yourself
by The Once and Future Prophet
Summary: One push. One push is all it takes for history to change, for destinies to be irrevocably altered, and for the greatest of loves to turn into the bitterest hatreds. The time for vendettas and rivalries has to be set aside, for if two enemies do not find a compromise, then all will be lost, and darkness will reign supreme.
1. Chapter 1

_The Force, by its very definition, was immaterial and not at all susceptible to the whims and fancies of the Universe. Only through those that used and manipulated it did the Force take shape, though no one group could truly claim to have even the slightest degree of complete understanding of the ethereal field. Such concepts as 'Light' and 'Dark' were just the projections that were cast upon it to better reflect the wielders intentions and heart._

_ But, in no way, could it be said that the Force was stationary, stagnant. It was a constantly shifting, expanding and contracting element of life, and no two points of it were the same. Time held no sway over it, and neither did dimension. What one perceived as the present could consequently be the past or a distant future for others. A certainty here was only a possibility elsewhere._

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Sitting on the edge of his sleep palette with the maroon wash of the planets two setting suns, he's lost in thought as he gazes at his thin and somewhat wrinkled hands. How had he grown old so fast? The years had seemed to just bleed into each other until nearly two decades had passed in this lonely exile. How had he seemed to age far faster than he should have when he was only a bit over standard middle-aged?

Mortality rarely concerned Obi-Wan Kenobi, being that he was regularly in touch with the living force and often acted as its vassal, but there was an emptiness in slowly dying in a hovel at the edge of the Jundland Wastes; he partially blamed it on being spoiled by the excitement and dangers of war.

He knew that what he was doing, had been doing this whole time, was imperative to the safety of the galaxy as a whole, yet he still yearned for activity, for (in risk of sounding clichéd) adventure; age had yet to beat that carryover from his days as a padawan learner from him. The son and daughter of Anakin Skywalker were, more or less, the only remnants of an old life that had now been almost entirely ground under the ruthless and unswayable machine that was the Galactic Empire. Them, two lightsabers and a heart full of pain.

If asked by just about anyone, Obi-Wan would tell them that he was always accompanied by the Force as his companion and never wanted for much. In reality, under the guises of a serene Jedi Master or the oft mischievous hermit, he was alone with his guilt and pain every waking second, struggling not to let the weight of the past crush him into nothing.

He could go days, weeks even, without recalling the names or faces of all those he lost, busying himself with life on the unconquered frontier of Tatooine. Inevitably, he will remember every single one of them and the grip upon his heart will strengthen until he is nearly doubled over from the agony; feeling the loss of the many friends and loved ones who were struck down in far too short a period and far too early.

He was practically alone in this galaxy; where Jedi were myths and the Dark Side reigned supreme over all. He had no one to talk to, to debate with, to **be** with. Hermitage was not a life meant for one so rambunctious as he had been, and still partly was. He dearly missed his comrades of the order, of the Republic, those that he had known for years, only to see them snatched away by tragedy.

The greatest pain of all, the one that had torn his armor away from him and left him with little in the way of defense, was that of losing Anakin. The bright, cheerful boy he had helped raise, the broody but loyal teenager he had taught, the solemn and courageous man he had embraced as a brother was dead and gone, or as good as. His fall to the Dark Side hadn't been abrupt, or even totally unseen as Obi-Wan had hoped it to be. With only a little hindsight, it was now painfully easy to see Sideous' ministrations from the very beginning, digging his claws into the prospective Chosen One and needling away at his foundations until they collapsed and left him susceptible to the Sith Lord's cunning shceming.

With hindsight came so many impossible questions: _If I had been there more, would he have sought me rather than Sideous? If I had listened to him, if I had actually taken his insecurities into measure, could I have seen where he was going in time? If I had learned about Padm__è earlier, could I have convinced the Council to overlook it and ensure their safety?_ He held none of the answers, and knew that there was no way he could change the past with nothing but regrets and wishes, but he never was able to shake the haunting scenarios that could or should have been from his dreams, nor of the faces of those they would have saved.

An old man, waiting to die alone with his regrets and seeking some vindication for past mistakes. He was truly living the life.

He wanted to sigh, to show some outward sign that he was still alive, but there was no point; there was no one there to see, and he had long ago stopped trusting himself on these matters. For all he knew, he could actually have died in his sleep and was still carrying on as an apparition of the Force, anchored to this mortal plane with the weight of dread hanging about his neck.

He could stay like this all night, with his own demons tearing into him and offering no respite. He has done so more times than he is willing to count, and just one more would be a mere drop in the bucket. But…

He perks his head up, slightly, as if hearing a far away voice, and looks off into the distance, ignoring the smooth stone walls that separate him and the outside. What he just felt, it was like the slightest tremor in the Force, no more than a vibration that was only felt as an echo of the real thing. It could be a disturbance, but it could also be the Force itself, shifting over some unseen change that he would likely never learn of.

But what this shift meant for everything else was uncertain, and would remain uncertain for the near future until enough had transpired that he could form a hypothesis, and maybe track its progress. It was at least something for him to occupy himself with. In a desert of sand and heat, there was little for a faded warrior to wile away the hours with.

Obi-Wan Kenobi finally laid down on his bed, quieting his mind to try and achieve slumber, but some phantom doubt, the emerged worldliness of age, told him that he would not rest easily, nor would he for some time to come.

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It started, and ended, with those dreaded and hated howls; the bellows never meant to leave a living beings lungs. The Sand People were on the hunt.

Luke had been lounging in his room, relaxing after a day full of tedious and exhaustive chores to keep the vaporators running and the homestead clean. But at the not nearly far enough call of the Tuskens, he was already scrambling for the door before he was even thinking, acting on instinct and practice.

Owen had been doing last rounds out in the courtyard and was already climbing the stairs to the surface at a reckless speed, gangly blaster rifle clutched in browned and calloused hands. Luke retrieved his own rifle from where it was kept at the ready in the garage and sped to join his uncle at the defenses.

What came next was all just a blur to the young man when he tried to look back on it: In the twilight gloom, the silhouettes of the raiders dotted the land not even half a klick away, already charging with gaderffii sticks held aloft and more war bugles being sounded from under their nightmarish wrappings. Owen didn't hesitate to open fire, and neither did Luke, but neither were much of a marksman and nearly all of the red blasts missed their targets entirely. Luke managed to wing one, though it continued on a second later, and Owen got on in the leg, halting its charge, but then the rest of the party was upon them.

Luke couldn't count how many there were, the light having nearly been extinguished entirely by that point, but he threw out a quick estimate that there were at least ten, not counting the one now crippled. In that world of darkness, he lashed out wildly, catching his nearest attacker across the face with the butt of his rifle and staggering the robed figure. Any attempt to bring the unwieldy rifle about to finish off the raider was thwarted by another of the nomadic Tusken as it brought its gaderffii down, hard, onto the barrel of the rifle and knocked it clear out of Luke's grasp.

Stumbling backwards, he ducked under the next swing, but the one after that caught him in the shoulder and he reeled from the pain. A shot went off nearby. None of the raiders in front of him dropped.

A third charged bodily into him and tackled him to the ground-and Luke's luck changed just like that. For while the Sand People were notorious scrappers and never held back, Luke was a physically active man at the beginning of his prime and was fighting for his life: the raider tried to bash his head in with its staff, but the blonde grabbed the blunt end of the weapon and diverted it away from his skull, coming back with a punch with his opposite hand that sent the raider rolling off of him and losing its hold on the gaderffii.

Taking up the glorified club, Luke swung it in a down stroke that connected with a reverberating _crack_ against the downed raider's skull, possibly killing it but definitely taking it out of the fight.

He spun about as another Tuskan rushed him, side stepping the overhead swing and ramming the end of his own staff into the pillager's abdomen. He never even realized how naturally he fought with a melee intended weapon rather than a blaster, despite having so little experience with the former.

A desperate roar tore itself from his throat as he hammered his stolen gaderffi into the neck of another raider, suffering a gash from the flanged section of another fighting stick as it descended from his peripheral vision and scored a hit along his left arm. The sting was momentary, quickly crammed beneath the adrenaline that was pumping into his veins like boiling water on ice. He was surrounded by enemies, and his baser instincts were now almost entirely at the helm, guiding him in the struggle for survival.

He doesn't even see the gaderffii that smacks him upside the jaw, toppling him like a mannequin. His ears were ringing and he could barely see anything beyond the dark splotches that swam in his vision. He did, however, feel the merciless blows that rained down on his prone form, forcing him to curl in on himself to try and reduce the damage.

Another shout, this one of alarm came from somewhere on his right. He had lost track of direction quickly in the fight, but he was sure that it was from Uncle Owen. Sure enough, the aging moisture farmer put words into his next exclamation. "Luke! Get outta there!"

Luke tried, rolling like a barrel away from his attacker, but the next thing he knew, a wrapped foot had smashed down on his head and pinned him to the sand. Flailing about, he couldn't find his gaderffii within reach, so instead he groped at the leg that was grinding his face into the course desert ground. His fingers happened upon a knife, merely a large chip of sharpened rock that the raider kept on hand, and he frantically drew it and plunged it into the leg.

A howl of pain, not unlike the earlier war shout, washed over him and the pressure bearing down on him vanished, leaving free to scramble to his feet. Another gaderffii smashed into his back, but he rolled with it and leapt at the offending raider, throwing a flurry of desperation fueled punches that drove the nomad back several steps before Luke wrenched the slightly longer gaderffii from its hands and used the spike on the end to cleave through its shoulder.

Ignoring the creatures agonized screeching, Luke pulled the weapon back and slammed it lengthwise across its face, creating a metallic click as it grazed the metal mouth piece of the Tusken's wrappings. One last, heavy-handed swing to the skull downed it, and Luke only just had time to get a better grip on his third weapon before he was beset upon by two at once, one of them sporting a glinting piece of stone from its leg.

Raising his staff to intercept the strike of one of them, the young farm boy left himself open to a swipe from the other than staggered him and nearly cost him his footing. He jumped away from a follow up, one aimed to break his hand or fingers, and swung one handed at the nearest attacker, needing the reach. He missed it by a good span of inches, but it had the effect of forcing the raider to dodge back to avoid the blow.

Luke backpedaled to give himself some more arm room, knocking into a third Tusken that wheeled about to ram him in the face, but was beaten to the punch as Luke sliced the small spike up across the pillagers chest, carving through bandages and puckered, nearly black skin beneath. A shove sent the injured Tuskan stumbling away as it groped at its oozing wound.

His two original aggressors were already attacking him again. He managed to think this time and dodged one while blocking the other in the same movement. Grabbing hold of the offending gaderffii, he jerked it towards him, disrupting the raider's balance and forcing it to take a step forwards. Releasing his hold, he instead reached forward and sharply tugged at the dirty brown rapping's that covered the raider's face. The traditional coverings were far too tight to remove, but he did succeed in knocking the ocular pieces askew and effectively blinded the Tuskan until it could right the problem.

A lance a fire sprang up from his side, this time remaining ahead of the adrenaline. The other raider had stabbed at him with the spike of his staff, thankfully missing somewhat so that the cut only glanced off of his rips but left a sizeable gash in his skin. Grasping at the laceration, Luke retaliates with a jerky kick, barely even connecting at all. His wounds are starting to get to him, and he might have a concussion on top of everything else.

His arm is slowing, but he still manages to jab his gaderffii towards his enemy with enough force that the Tuskan is shunted back a step, repositioning its own club to strike him in the temple or jaw. Luke, though dazed, sees his opportunity and leans back, just out of the staffs range, and narrowly avoids the blow. He capitalizes on this by running fully into the raider, knocking it to the ground with him straddling its chest.

The blonde slams the shaft of his gadeffii down across the craven's throat, pushing down with his body weight and unconsciously loosing a hissing sound as he struggles against the thrashing raider, spit and blood spurting out from between his clenched teeth. It doesn't take long to crush the Tuskan's windpipe beneath the hot metal, but it would take a deal longer for it to finally die, time Luke doesn't have.

A pair of arms grabbed him under the shoulders and threw him off of the asphyxiating raider. Rolling a pace away, Luke manages to get to his feet before the staff cracks against his off-hand, succeeding in breaking something where the others had failed. Wailing, Luke only held onto the crude cudgel through dogged determination, glaring heatedly at the enshrouded native creature.

Holding his damaged hand close to his still bleeding side, Luke throws several strikes of his own, but they are lacking in strength and are easily dodged or blocked. He knows that he is doomed if he doesn't finish the fight soon, so he takes a reckless approach and spins around, just one rotation, and flings the gaderffii as hard as he can at the raider.

It flinches away, instinctively raising its hands to shield its face. The staff only knocks against its chest like a minor punch, but Luke has already seized his chance and steps in with a significantly stronger right hook that glances off of the pillager's jaw, but still knocks it down from the unexpected force. Snatching his gaderffii back up, Luke smashes it down on the cloaked terror, again and again and again, until it stops moving altogether.

Winded, the young man finally takes stock of his surroundings. The sands are littered with the shadowy bodies of the Sand People, the nighttime sky giving them a ghoulish appearance. Some are still alive, but either too stunned or wounded to leave right then.

Looking hazily back towards where the homestead was nestled in the cooler layers of the ground, he spotted a lone figure standing at the lip of the sizeable indent, looking down into it.

"Un-" Luke breaks off as a throb of pain forces him to clamp his jaw shut and clutch at the jagged cut in his side with his uninjured hand. It eventually subsides, but now he is even shorter of breath. "Uncle Owen…" He staggers towards the figure, feet shuffling in the sand. Slowly, the head of the only other remaining fighter turns towards him, and Luke catches a glint of reflected light off of sand polished metal before the Tuskan jumps down into his home.

Panic explodes inside of him, and he lurches after the assailant. His feet catch on something and he crashes headlong into the ground. Looking back, Luke feels bile rise up in his mouth to see that he tripped over the arm of his Uncle, throat split open of as if by a beast; blood pooling down his front as glassy, blank eyes stare in frozen shock somewhere over Luke's shoulder.

A scream snaps him from his horror, and, with an even greater sense of dread, he realizes that the last Tuskan has found Aunt Beru. He tries to rise to his feet once more, but his injuries finally take their toll and he collapses back down, huffing breaths displacing the sand by his mouth in small clouds. Consciousness leaves him, and he's left to drift in darkness…

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Obi-Wan stood up from where he had been kneeling by the fresh graves. The two additions to the four already there made for a grim scene that conveyed just how much death plagued this family. It struck him then that he stood just a few feet away from where Anakin's mother lay, the woman he had never met in person but had heard plenty of.

Biggs Darklighter stood nervously behind him, twisting his hands anxiously as he waited for the hermit to speak up. Obi-Wan had found him there when he arrived, going through the ransacked house and trying to restore some semblance of order to the sad wreck that had been the Lars' homestead. Naturally, he had been spooked by the appearance of the older man, but Kenobi had not been in any mood to prolong his mystique and had grilled the normally excitable man on just what had happened.

He had, stuttering out of nerves, retold the account that Luke had told him when he had visited him at Doctor Tebb's. He didn't have all of the details, with the Skywalker being agonizingly tight lipped and shell shocked, but he could fill in some of the spaces with the evidence that he and the other neighbors had found upon discovering the raid the day after.

That had been several days ago now, the tang of blood already lost in the sands and echoes of time. Obi-Wan hadn't immediately noticed anything wrong, being too far to hear of an attack and unable to differentiate the deaths of the Lars' with the other countless deaths and births that were going on all around him. When he had noticed something off, he had set out immediately despite it being still dark out, arriving a few hours after dawn.

"Mr. Darklighter, would you be so kind as to give this old man a ride over to the clinic? I believe that time is of the essence right now."

Biggs solemnly nodded, not really knowing a reason to deny his elder. He had heard a few stories of 'Old Ben Kenobi' saving people who had wondered out into the wastes, not the least of whom was Luke just a few months back.

They left the depressing shell of a home behind and boarded Biggs' three seat speeder, zooming across the desert with the lonely wail of the hover engines the only sound between them. Obi-Wan looked out across the barren landscape that he had called home for nineteen years, not feeling any attachment to the rocks and sand. If anything, he felt more uncomfortable in the stifling heat than ever before, something that he attributed to the dreary shadow that had seemingly fallen over his life lately.

What was he going to do, now that the boy's last relatives were gone? He couldn't harbor him himself, since that had been exactly what they had meant to avoid when splitting up the twins. Being around another Force sensitive, let alone a Jedi Master, would bolster his connection the Force and make him easier for the Empire and Vader to discover.

His agitated thought process was interrupted as the speeder decelerated and they stopped in front of a larger homestead than what they had just left, in actuality two separate buildings that had been joined in the intervening years due to a necessity for space. A simple sign was hung above both doorways declaring this "Lebb's Clinic", with the L hastily made into a T with black ink, the newer coat in stark contrast to the faded print around it.

Tebb himself, a genial if world-weary human male, was standing out front, leaning against the hard stone of the wall and sipping at a canteen. Spotting them, he waved them over without leaving the ample pool of shade he had camped in. Upon recognizing both of his visitors, a slight smile lit up on his creased cheeks.

"Well, I'll be damned; if it isn't Ben! I haven't seen you in a wamprat's age, you old bantha."

Obi-Wan cordially shook the offered hand, glad to see that he was remembered in a positive light. He hadn't been around these parts since he had escorted the survivors of an imperial patrol away from where most of them had unfortunately fallen prey to a veritable mind field of young sarlaacs. Even though the stormptroopers had insisted otherwise, the Jedi wasn't just going to leave them stranded out in the middle of literally nowhere with no way for them to contact help, with their communications specialist being one of the first victims.

"Indeed Tebb, it is good to see you as well. We are here to inquire of the young Skywalker."

The smile dropped from Tebb's face quickly, replaced by a duel frown and grimace. He offered out the canteen, universal language for 'you won't like the news'. It was only water, but that was still a precious commodity on this dustball.

"Well, comparatively, Luke's injuries were rather superficial; mostly just trauma along the arms and chest. The lacerations were easily cleaned and closed, helped along by a shot of bacta, as well as the fractured bones. What had me worried was whether or not he had suffered any cranial damage that could lead to brain damage. See, the kid barely said a word the whole time, and I get that his aunt and uncle were just killed, but he was totally stone still and silent; unnerved me, he did. But when I tried to do a scan, the screen of my console blew a fuse and nigh exploded, so I couldn't get the final results."

Obi-Wan nodded along with the words being spoken, but he was already disregarding them. The computer hadn't blown a fuse: Luke had been unconsciously lashing out with the Force and had caused the damage. If his emotional state was in such turmoil, then there really was no other choice but to get him off planet and into another, more peaceful environment. Perhaps it was time to contact senator Organa and arrange for transport.

"Could we see the boy; it might do him good to have some familiar faces around."

Tebb's immediate lack of response got Obi-Wan's attention. The weather worn man was averting his eyes, almost guiltily it seemed.

"Hey, what's the matter? Can't we see Luke?" Biggs spoke up, catching the shift in attitude admirably.

"Well that's just it: Luke left last evening." At the two looks of incredulity and confusion he was getting, he grimaced again as he took another drink from the water, his throat having suddenly gone dry. "This is only a clinic, not a proper med-station, if a patient can walk and remain conscious then I have no real right to keep 'em here until they're fully healed up."

"But where could the boy have gone? We just came from his home and there was no trace of him on the way over."

"Well of course you didn't spot him; he didn't even go in that direction. He took the transport into Mos Eisely. Told me that he was going to sell the deed for the homestead and leave the planet."

Obi-Wan felt the grip of guilt be joined by the cold claws of panic in his chest, taking root at his center and promising not to let go any time soon.

"Did he, by chance, say where it was that he meant to depart to?" He managed to keep the edge from his voice, if only just.

"Yeah, actually: said that he was goin' to the nearest Imperial installation and signin' up for the academy."

Obi-Wan knew then that he was cursed to forever fail his loved ones.


	2. Chapter 2

Truth be told, Luke knew all too well that he wasn't in any condition to be making these long distance trips so soon after the attack. The standard variety of reckless hothead had been subdued deep within him, to a depth he doubted it would return from for years, if ever; but while he had been lying on his cot in the clinic during the hours of Tatooine's scorching days and cool nights he had felt an almost physical repulsion, urging him from the sands he had known his whole life.

He had debated, somewhat weakly, with himself that this was home and he didn't have anywhere else to go. He could move into a city, or ask the Darklighter's if he could board with them and work off his keep. These were the responsible courses of actions that his pragmatic uncle had imprinted on him over his lifetime.

But a much stronger voice, a more motivated one pointed out that Luke had never truly felt as though he belonged on this planet. The heat, the dangers, the struggle to make it from day to day were not in the kind of life he wanted. He needed to get out, to be among the stars, to actually see worlds that he had only read about from old and worn datapads.

Sitting down in his seat as the cruiser slipped through the eddies of hyperspace, the young farm boy let himself breath deeply. The air was metallic, and already going stale with the other dozen passengers breathing almost faster than the scrubbers could replenish it, but he felt at ease among the familiar workings of a ship as it soared against the forces of gravity and space.

The cost for the first ride off of Tatooine was covered by the profit he had surmounted by selling the Lars property. Nearly every moisture farmer or land owner had actual proof of ownership in the event of a legal dispute, and he had not gotten it from his uncle's safe in his room before heading to Mos Eisely. But he had been vouched for by a few family friends that he had found in the chaotic messa, backing up his authenticity and swaying the real estate broker to finalize the transaction, thus severing Luke's obligatory chain to this world for good.

He hadn't felt the guilt of abandoning his heritage over the elation of long overdue freedom as he boarded the old and colorless starship.

He was finally making his own destiny in the galaxy. And he knew precisely what his next stop would be.

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Obi-Wan had always believed in packing light.

It had been a carryover from his learner days in the Jedi Temple, and then his apprenticeship under Qui-Gon, and he had been shown very little evidence that it was a poor practice. During the Clone Wars especially, he had always been ready at a moments notice if he needed to ship out to the outer rim by midday, or if an attack leveled whatever base he had been stationed at.

It didn't take him long to completely empty his homestead of all personal affects. He deliberated on the gimmer-wood case, deceptively resilient and DNA locked to prevent entrance from anyone without Skywalker blood, but that too was packed up and secured in the back of Biggs' landspeeder. There was little to no chance that Luke would return, and even if he did, he would have no inclination to visit a hermit's abandoned home, or the desire to return to the site of the Lars' deaths.

Making sure that the underground storeroom was properly closed off, the man known as Ben left the building without a backward glance. He didn't even need the taught lack of sentimentality of a Jedi to hold no attachment to the place.

Biggs was leaning against his speeder, arms and legs crossed. He had been roped into giving Obi-Wan another ride, though he had hardly needed coercion to be swayed: his best friend had left without any goodbye, right after a traumatizing affair that would have left any other curling into a ball and weeping; he was worried about the sandy haired pilot, far more now that Ben Kenobi was as well. Also a little miffed that Luke had managed to escape Tatooine before he had, but he tried to quash those feelings down as best he could.

"If you're headed to Mos Eisely to find a ride, I don't recommend booking passage at the spaceport," the young man began, sliding into the driver's seat as Ben took his own, the hover engines coming to life with a high whine. "Anyone actively offering paid transport is more than likely to charge you three times the normal fare it would take. Try looking in the cantina for a captain without debts to repay, or at least one who's honest about it."

The ruddy landscape whizzed by all around them, bringing a disconcerting sense of non-progression, merely looping around in one, wide circle.

"Hm," Ben nodded slightly, to show he had heard the advise, though he honestly didn't require it. Besides the Force, he had years of experience to determine what was and wasn't a fair trade; he had once heard tell of Kit Fisto losing 500 credits to a street swindler when he had been a Knight, to his everlasting embarrassment, by trying to rely solely on the Force to steer his purse in mid-level Coruscant markets.

Kit had been a good sport about it...several decades after the fact.

"So, you were here the whole time for Luke?" Biggs spoke several minutes later, quieter than before. Obi-Wan glanced over at his traveling mate and noted that the man was nervously playing with the dark shadow above his upper lip that was playing at being a mustache.

"Here for Luke? Care to explain what you mean by that?"

Biggs shrugged, abandoning his glorified stubble in favor of drumming fingers against the steering stalks. "Not really hard to figure out, really. You show up 'bout the same time as Luke is taken in by his aunt and uncle, they never really explained where he'd come from, and now that he's gone, you're on your way out as well."

Obi-Wan had always known that the evidence was fairly telling, but he had also know that the talk of native people wouldn't be about the crazy hermit's relation to the Lars' nephew. "Very well," he conceded neutrally. "I can't deny that."

"But why? I mean," Biggs glanced at Obi-Wan, "why would you have to bring him here? Why couldn't he stay with his parents?"

"There were...enemies of his parents, beings who would much rather see the family killed and forgotten than allow them to remain. His mother was killed by one of them, dying just moments after Luke was born, and his father had been lost several days prior."

Biggs looked understandably stricken by the news, but kept his silence in order to hear the rest.

"Tatooine is the home planet of Luke's father, and where his only living relatives still dwelt. The Lars' were very happy and willing to call Luke family, and I dedicated these years to watching from a distance and ensuring that the enemies of the Skywalkers never found him."

Biggs scrunched up his brow in thought for a moment. "But, if you were hiding him, then why didn't you change his name? And wouldn't this be the first place they would look for him if his only family was here?"

Obi-Wan allowed a small smile to show under his white beard. They were very good questions indeed, and Darklighter was proving to be a surprisingly adept young man. "These people, the ones meaning him harm, they would have to go through either Imperial channels or else employ spies. The people of Tatooine are amazingly paranoid of big governments poking their noses into local affairs, and would become rather tight lipped if a Stormtrooper or an off-worlder was inquiring too intently about a native family. And the Lars were only related to Luke by way of marriage, and the only ones who knew this were his parents, neither of whom were likely to ever visit this planet again after they departed the last time, not after the dark events that unfolded then." His smile had left by the end, reminded of the disturbing tale he had pieced together over the years through different accounts and pieces of evidence.

"So, you were hiding him in plain sight but, but also not at all?" Biggs tried to clarify, to which Obi-wan chuckled and resumed his observation of their surroundings, most unhelpfully.

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Several miles to the east, almost exactly parallel with them at that moment, and headed in the same direction to the same destination, a single Tusken Raider trudged over the sand, his wrapped feet leaving no footprint to follow. Several water skins were dangling from his waist, two empty, the third only a quarter full and the remaining two were still topped off. The dull gray and dented gaderffii stick he had been bequeathed was currently tied atop a small sack he had strung across his back, containing only several essentials, several rolled up articles of clothing, and a single keepsake of his mother's that he had secreted away for years.

In his tribe, he was know as Ho'rrkt, '_of a hundred winds_', and he was curious.

This curiosity was most definitely not something encouraged among the Sand People, as it often brought trouble, pain, and death to the People with no practical reward for having followed it. But Ho'rrkt had always been inquisitive, always been wondering how something worked, why something was the way it was, or what could be different. His earliest memory was of asking his mother why some rocks were found under the sand while others rose up into the sky, higher than any living being stood.

Always, he had been deprived of answers, for what answers were there in a history that was almost unchanged for the last one hundred generations of his people? He had heard tales from the village's keeper of stories about strange beings made from rock that gleamed, of powerful warriors with strength enough to out wrestle even the strongest tribesmen, of the mysterious figures that could make themselves understood with a wave of their hand and wielded blades of sunfire. All of these incredible accounts and absolutely no explanation for them besides "the gods were angry".

They had all seen the great masses of gleaming rock shooting through the air, completely in defiance of whatever force held them to the ground, and most called them 'monstrosities of the intruders'. That was what the People called everybody but themselves that walked these dunes, and everything they brought was considered heresy and abominable. The only reason for using the rifles was that they were a more effective way of killing a greater number of them, and the water towers were essential for surviving dry spells.

But Ho'rrkt had seen a problem with this for years, one he now knew not to speak aloud lest his risk a beating: if what the intruders brought was much better than what the People used, and the People could find uses for them, then why didn't they use more of them, or know anything about them after generations of use? It was absurd that any knowledge of outsiders was shunned, as it could prove to be just as useful as the rifles or towers.

So, Ho'rrkt began watching the intruders by himself after he had passed his rites of adulthood and could travel by himself between raids. He would lay atop tall dunes and look down into homesteads, or into the small outposts that dotted the dessert, observing the outlanders as they went about their day. He noted strange mannerisms, peculiar habits, bizarre traditions. He saw strange, mind boggling creatures among the intruders that acted as they did, beings of intelligence rather than beasts and predators.

What he had seen didn't coincide with the teachings of his tribe: that anyone not of the People were demons from the sky, sent to torment them from one deity or another that the ancient ancestors had slighted for their own infractions of nature. He had seen families living what he could only assume was their lives as they tended to the water towers, bothering nobody and certainly not enacting the vengeance of gods, except perhaps by existing, and that crime was shared by one and all.

Sometimes, when there weren't any of the shining rock creatures around, _droyds_, he would sneak up to the homes and just listen to the others talk amongst each other. He had not learned their tongue, only a word or two, but he had somewhat learned something just as good: their body language. The fleshy pink ones, those that most closely resembled the People, were the easiest to interpret, with many of the same little tics and twitches as his kin. But they also expressed heavily with their faces, something the People obviously didn't share. A stretching of the lips could be considered good or bad, depending on the direction. Where the eyes looked could also tell of what that person was meaning, or if they were being untruthful.

Three times now he had camped out a short distance away from one of the much larger settlements, with dozens of the stone buildings gathered together like a mocking mirror of the tents the People lived out of when not in the shelter of canyons. From there, he witnessed the large shining rock sculptures, _ships_, if he was properly connecting the word with the context, coming and going with no clear pattern but fluid rapidity. He had watched them fly higher and higher, points on their back ends glowing furiously, until they had vanished from sight. He had thought that they really must come from the heavens, for what other kind of creature could ascend so high without bursting into flames for being so close to the great sky spirits? But then he had recognized some of the _ships_ that descended as well, coming back from wherever they had gone, and this led him to believe that they were actually from different settlements that were situated high above the clouds. Surely it wasn't as hard to believe as beings able to summon fire from their hands, or those that would live under the twin suns without full body coverings?

He had watched, he had listened. He had learned. But he wanted to learn so much more, more than he suspected most of his kind ever had, and to do that he would have to get in very close with the intruders. But any interaction with the intruders was expressly forbidden, unless it were through one who wished to convert to their way, or else one who had passed their tests and was deemed a friend, or at least not an immediate threat. And the intruders knew to kill any of the People on sight and then expect many more to follow. It had seemed that his desire was impossible thanks to generations of fighting between the two sides.

But, one of his ideas had slowly germinated in his mind and developed further and further, providing a wild, inconceivable solution: if he was to learn from the intruders, it would have to be as one of them.

He had initially discarded the thought as nonsense, something his brain had hatched through depravity and dehydration. But he had not forgotten about the prospect, and the appeal kept growing. He would think about as he rode with his fellow scouts, ponder the ramifications while reconnoitering dunes for hazards, deliberate the risks as he lay down to sleep. Soon, far sooner than it should have taken, he decided that he very well could, but he was still uncertain if he should. But the courage to break away from his everything he had ever known unexpectedly found him one night while trying to light a fire, just striking him as he fumbled the kindling.

And so, he was out here, trekking across endless miles of sand and rock. He had set out eleven sun rises ago, leaving his bantha mount behind among the tribe so as to eliminate the chance of being tracked and so his tribesmen could make use of her in his stead. For no matter how sacred the bond between Tusken and bantha was, the punishment for what he was going to do would strip even that right from him, and he hoped to at least spare his mount from the repercussions.

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Obi-Wan bade Biggs farewell at the foot of the landing ramp of his chartered ship, the "_Adquis_".

"Take care of yourself young man; there aren't many who would show such courtesy to someone they barely know, and the ones there are are as great a gift as water to a thirsty soul."

Biggs ducked his head in embarrassed acknowledgment. "Well, you just repay me by finding Luke and making sure he doesn't get his fool self into anything I can't get him out of since I'm not around, yeah?"

Obi-Wan smiled, remembering how an eight year old Luke had managed to get himself locked inside of a jawa sandcrawler and had spent two hours trying to argue with the diminutive merchants, neither side understanding the other.

"I will most certainly try. Here's hoping he'll but listen." They both chuckled. And then he was walking up the ramp as the first mate called for all passengers to take their seats. Several minutes later, Obi-Wan Kenobi was leaving Tatooine behind him and didn't expect to return for the rest of his life. Despite himself, he let out a small breath of contentment inside the ship as it entered space – the _air-conditioned_ ship.

Now, to go about the large task of finding Luke. He couldn't follow him to whatever Imperial Academy he went to, partly because he had no idea which one it was and mostly because he couldn't risk setting foot near so large an Imperial presence. The last time he had done so, when Luke was still but an infant and Qui-Gon had hinted at another living Jedi, things had not gone smoothly at all, not even by his standards which were notably accommodating after the Clone Wars.

But he did have an idea where he could start looking.

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Little did either of them know it, but Obi-Wan's ship passed almost directly overhead of Ho'rrkt as he came within sight of Mos Eisely. Standing on a rocky overhand, he stood stationary for a good while, just watching the city as countless outlanders walked about, visible only as specks.

There was another reason for his hesitation. What he was about to do violated the social, religious and traditional rules of his People so thoroughly that, if any of them ever found out, he would be killed on the spot and his body pulverized until nothing more than red paste remained to be soaked up into the arched sand. He had been raised his whole life under these rules, and to go against them was as massive an upheaval of faith as it would be if the very sky gods themselves descended before him and declared themselves as falsehoods. He might very well be stricken dead as soon as he blasphemed the edicts as old as his People themselves. And again, he might not.

It was the insatiable desire to learn more, to know more, to understand what seemed so mysterious and wondrous that had given him the idea of abandoning his tribe as he had, driven him to walk the desert alone, and had now guided him to this very spot. Might as well be the reason he went against the gods.

He slowly dropped his pack, letting the gaderffii rattle against the rock loudly. He shucked the long coat that ran from his neck all the way down to his heels, allowing it to gather in a bundle that he kicked away. Next came his inner coat, this one made from darker fabrics spun from the dense fur of the domesticated banthas, and following that with the sleeves on both forearms. The dark brown vest he wore was soon discarded, as were the cream colored leggings. He was now left only in his wrappings, that closest of layers that all of the People wore from their naming until their deaths.

With slow, but steadied hands, the young warrior reached up and began the long process of removing the wraps constricting his skull, peeling away layer after layer, dislodging the ceremonial juts of metal. His twin eyepieces were carefully twisted out from where they were immobilized half a centimeter away from his retinas. The mouth-guard, woven of a thinner material that allowed for air and water to seep through but still restrict most sand and heat, fell away when the support for it was removed, landing with a soft _pat_ at his feet.

At last, his face was bare to the elements, feeling tender after so long under the wrappings. His pale, pale flesh felt itchy, but he knew better than to scratch insistently as the desire would not be alleviated that way. His sharply upturned nose now seemed to relax, having always been squashed to his face for purposes of smelling through the close bondage and over the tenacious redolence that nobody ever thought a desert would exude. He did run a gloved hand over his hairless scalp, smooth from lack of exposure, unable to feel but acutely visualizing the tribal markings that had been imprinted upon his flesh ere his coming of manhood, the rough diamonds and squares arcing from the corners of each brow, over the edges of his skull, and down to the nape of his neck.

Breathing deeply, and taking a guilty pleasure in it, Ho'rrkt quickly stripped out of the rest of his traditional garb until he was bare in the wind, which felt impossibly cooler despite the sweltering temperatures. Quickly rolling up all of the wrappings and linens, he set them to the side before taking fistfuls of sand and scrubbing it all over his body, scouring the accumulated smell off as best he could; the one which Tuskens had become indifferent to ages ago, but all outsiders took great exception to. Next, he retrieved the only water skin still full, pulled off the cap, and slowly emptied it over his head and shoulders, rubbing the subsequent mud off with his free hand.

It took only moments for the excess moisture to evaporate under the angry glare of two suns, leaving him again momentarily cool and free to extract the fresh clothes from his pack. Unlike his others, these were made by and for the outsiders, pilfered over several day and nighttime raids in the past several months. From his observations, it wasn't too hard to figure out what went where, and pretty soon he looked remarkably like any other member of the intruders, though it certainly didn't feel that way to him. It was almost like a child had been swaddled in the garb of an elder, so loose did it feel on him; by their very nature, the People made due with painfully limited resources, and overindulgence was as unlike them as it was possible, so there was no such thing as a fat raider, or even a soft one. Being born large was actually more of a curse than being born small, as it meant that your body was almost always undernourished.

Ho'rrkt was wiry, and would be considered just over the galactic standard for humans, which was actually somewhat comparable for a raider. Whether male or female, any of the People were extensively active in the day-to-day labors of living, so body fat was always something of an anomaly among them. He would never pass for a club bouncer, but he did resemble some kind of athlete, with no over-development in lower or upper muscle groups – a survivors physique.

At long last, he was ready, with his pack stuffed with his former garb and gaderffii stick protruding from one end. Trying and failing to get used to the feeling of space between his skin and his clothing, he readjusted the strap around his shoulder and headed towards the wretched hive of scum and villainy that was Mos Eisely, but to him looked like a shining bastion of the information that he so dearly craved.

A destiny that would, and already had, affect the galaxy was about to begin in earnest.

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	3. Chapter 3

Naboo remained a peaceful planet after the galactic upheaval that was the Clone Wars, but as Emperor Palpatine's home planet it was a very strongly held Imperial world with multiple garrisons in the in the cities and several in the marshes. After a skirmish with native terrorists sixteen years back, the military presence had been quadrupled almost overnight, quashing any further revolts through shear threat alone. It was often considered a posh assignment for Stormtroopers and officers alike, something of a reward for dedicated and loyal service.

Disembarking the cruiser, Luke nervously fingered the identification card the surly first mate had given him as part of the Empire's Enlistment Initiative. (For worlds that had lax or inadequate government records, reputable ships were encouraged to carry these cards as a way for the prospective candidates to jot down their pertinent information for the recruitment processes. Of course it was near it was near impossible to tell if what was written was even the truth or not, but the Empire had other ways of weeding out potential spies or traitors.)

The crown city of Theed was breathtaking in its elegance, rendering every single structure on Tatooine laughable in comparison to even the lowliest tool shed. And the air! Luke had never thought you could actually taste air, but he would forever more swear on the blissfully sweet nectar that was the atmosphere on this heavenly water planet, kissing his every pore with rich moisture and a coolness no environment system could truly replicate.

He took several minutes to just stand there and bask in the wondrous contrast from the only world he had known. But then the cruiser he had arrived on started its sublight engines and he was forced to scurry away from the landing spot and into a line of other young humans leading toward a booth that was manned by two black clad imperial officers off to the side of the regular exit from the starport. Through his mounting excitement and trepidation, he didn't quite make the connection that only humans were waiting in line, with not an alien species to be seen.

After around half an hour of impatiently strumming his fingers and unsuccessfully trying to engage the other hopefuls in conversation, it was Luke's turn to stand in front of the shimmering screen that separated him from the bored looking oficer.

"Card," was the simple instruction. Luke had watched the past several guys go through this process and mirrored them closely, sliding his ID card through a nearly imperceptible slot at the bottom of the screen for the desk jockey to pick up and quickly read the brief information. Glancing at Luke for visual confirmation, he typed rapidly into his console to send the data through several filters. Much as both of them figured it would, the console produced very little information on Luke other than that Tatooine really was his home planet, being the only one that had pictures of him at the flight terminal. "Take the hallway behind me to the fork and take the right passage. Present your ID to the pilot and board the transport. Welcome to Naboo, Luke Lars."

Reclaiming his card and giving the officer an appreciative nod, he followed the instructions and headed off down the corridor, his footsteps echoing all around him. He had lied about his last name (and his age, but that seemed a lesser issue) as a precaution born more from childish pride than actual worry. He feared that somebody might have heard of his father the transport pilot and he'd be deemed no good for anything but menial work on that legacy alone. He was determined to strike out as his own man, and the first step of which was to start from scratch without anything for or against him other than his own skill.

The Nabooian Imperial Flight Academy would remember him for his accomplishments...or his failures.

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Unfortunately, but most certainly understandably, there wasn't a single ship that was making a run from Tatooine to anywhere near the core worlds, so Obi-Wan was forced to make charter several more trips after the _Adquis_ dropped him off on Nar Shadaa, the extent of the captain's established route. From the aptly named "Dumpster Moon", it was another day's trip to Saleucami. He felt uneasy standing on a world where such a protracted and bloody battle had been waged, one he had taken a very active role in, and he hastened to secure his next ride to Tanaab, the sedate agriculture world where he had almost spent his years in humble service if not for Qui-Gon's timely decision to take him on as his apprentice.

Obviously, he was rather disquieted that he kept coming back to planets with negative memories associated with them.

Now that he had meandered his way to the Inner Rim, it was much easier to find a (cheap) ship that would take him to Brentaal, and from there it was only a hop and skip to the vibrantly alive planet of Alderaan. The Planet of Beauty truly was that to both his eyes and through the Force, a beacon of serenity in a galaxy largely filled with anger and fear and a welcome respite to the exiled Jedi.

He had studied Alderaan in his learner days, being a very small part of the very huge package that was astrogeography lessons, and he knew offhand that the Organa family had gained prominence over the other noble families centuries ago and became the planet's leaders, heading a monarchy that had largely maintained a benevolent approach for generations as well as a strong presence in the Senate.

Purse thoroughly depleted, he opted out of renting a swoop taxi in favor of a hot meal at the nearby _Cafe_, the polite, upscale version of a cantina, a distinction he privately thought quite funny. Stomach full and well rested from the long trip, he set off on foot down the quaint dirt road that led from the small spaceport town and towards the distant capital city of Aldera.

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"My Lord, we shall be entering hyper space in two minutes and shall arrive at Kuat in four hours time."

Silence.

Vader rarely slept these days. The constant pain from his suit and his personal demons were more than enough to keep him conscious most of the time. Today had been one of the rare occurrences where he had managed to slip off in his meditation chamber before the torment could fully take hold.

His dreams, always a source of anguish and concern, were never clear or concise when they showed anything other than the hundreds slain by his blade and command; he saw distorted shapes and shadows, heard voices and noises that came from kilometers away, felt biting cold and stinging wind - they could have been twisted memories, or perhaps muddled glimpses into what was to come.

Today was not much different, but some bits and pieces were actually discernible to his mind. Fragmented earth shifting beneath him. Black ink crawling across a bloody field. Silver, nonliving skin dancing through the sky. A warm cocoon spun from black, white and gray. All just minuscule bits and pieces to a vastly larger picture he was forbidden from seeing in its entirety, and another cause for his anger and frustrations. He detested being toyed with by the Force, being given hints about some great chain of events he had no idea if he would even factor into.

Now staring out from the central viewport on the bridge of the _'Conqueror'_, he allowed the blank void before him to reflect his unease and consternation. He detested being toyed with by the Force, a plaything for its perverse amusement, or even just a ripple in an otherwise uncaring river. There were no clear answers to be had, and that meant he would need to -as he always had- manage without, as much as that infuriated him.

He turned to face the deck officer that had been waiting nervously for his response. "Ensure that we are, Lieutenant," he barked shortly before turning on his heel to depart the bridge and stalk about the passageways of the ship to terrify the crew, the most harmless form of stress relief he had at his disposal.

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The shuttle craft took the two dozen prospective well outside of the city and into the countryside, not to the muggy swamps and marshes but to the verdant green fields and plains that nabooian farmers had been tilling for generations. Thirty seven kilometers outside of Theed, the Royal Empirical Flight Academy was situated on a stretch of land flat as far as the eye could see in every direction, like a slab of permacrete the size of a city had been used to tamp the earth like a baker would a mass of dough.

The main building was rather ornate, with three angular spires the shape of hexagons crowning the central construct, with the shortest section being three stories and the tallest topping off at eleven. Several other buildings were spaced out around the base, bearing purposes that would only become clear after further knowledge was gained. At least four hangars were positioned at either end of the compound, and as Luke was watching them during the approach he spotted the sleek form of a nabooian starfighter shoot out from one of them, spinning several times as it ascended steeply until disappearing in seconds amid the crystalline blue sky.

He had heard that such crafts were still utilized on the planet as localized security, with only promising cadets being permitted to train in them in conjunction with TIEs, shuttles and the regular assortment of Imperial ships. To his eye, the small, one man ship looked more like a piece of art than an actual combat vehicle, though in truth that could be said about much of Naboo's technology. He rather hoped he'd get the chance to try his hand in one.

They landed by a rectangular structure that almost looked like it was poured from a mold for all the ingenuity that was shown in its architecture. Several men in the crisp and severe uniforms of officers were waiting on the ground for them, and judging by the diminutive amount of colored chips on their left breast they were fairly low ranked. Luke and the others filed out of the shuttle as it turned down its engines and followed some barked orders to line themselves up into three line. Nearly all of the other prospects wore smart clothes and bore airs of money and sophistication about them, something Luke hadn't missed on the ride over and had been swerating over the whole time. Biggs had told him that most academies were notorious for only accepting the sons of influential and wealthy families, keeping to the upper crust in as clear an example of favoritism as anything else he could have seen.

A man of average height with forgettable, weathered feautures stepped apart from his fellows, drawing all of their attention neatly. He spoke in a surprisingly booming voice, posh accent enunciating each syllable briskly. "All of you are here to enlist in this prestigious academy and serve your Empire. You wish to join the ranks of the most elite and worthy pilots in all the galaxy, and perhaps make your name known for heroics and loyalty. This is an aspiration rivaled by none, and you shall soon find that the Imperial Navy is true sword of the Empire, defending our own while striking back with unwavering lethality and resolve."

He clasped his hands behind his back and began to slowly pace before the group, each step appearing to be evenly measured and surefooted. Luke was positive he had made this speech countless times before and was following his own script. "But not all of you will be joining our ranks. Some of you will not even pass enlistment. Once, and if, you have become a student, you will be part of a body of three hundred and seventy of your peers who will all be vying for to be part of the _one hundred_ graduates, of whom only the very best and able are chosen. We do not accept second best, gentlemen, so you shall never give anything but your utmost and more to be among the graduating class. Every single student is your rival, and it is your duty to overcome every single one of them, or else pack your bag and be on the next shuttle off planet."

A shiver of unrest went through the volunteers at his words. They weren't too different from what would have been printed on a brochure for the Navy, but the way he said them made it seem even more daunting than they had theorized. Suddenly, the stark reality set in for several among the group and Luke could see them start to fidget as sweat dotted their necks. It was one thing to say you'd join the military, but another entirely to be faced with a commitment so demanding and punishing.

"I am Captain Jurgsen, and from this moment on I shall be in charge of every moment of your lives as long as you stand or fly on these grounds." He ceased pacing and indicated another of the four officers, this one very pale and thin, but with eyes sharper than flint and shaved scalp practically shining from under his neat cap. "Lieutenant Krelle shall be your instructor in the classroom, teaching you the logistics, history, mathematics and geometry of flight."

He nodded to the next man in line, this one being a good head taller than his compatriots, his tanned skin and large muscles making him an unmistakable and imposing figure. "Sergeant Donnel will be your supervisor, responsible for ensuring that you learn discipline and are properly punished for transgressions. He will be unquestioned and you will follow his ever command to the word."

Finally, he held his hand out to the last of the officers, this one a dark skinned man with a neatly trimmed beard. A distinguishable twinkle from his right eye revealed it to be a cybernetic prosthetic, something usually frowned upon in imperial ranks. "Flight Lieutenant Grav'na will be in charge of your flight training, both in simulators and in live exercises. You will not be seeing him until you pass the first phase of your training, which shall be devoted to your physical and mental improvements."

Jurgsen pulled out his comlink and activated a predesignated command. Seconds later, a simple astromech droid rolled to his side, a datapad clasped in its extended manipulator. Taking the list, the captain glanced over it for a moment before facing the group once more. "As I call your name, step to the side." He started reciting names, but Luke was too jittery to listen for anything other than "Lars, Luke". But as the names were called, Luke was still standing there, _yearning_ for the next one to be his. After just a minute and some change, Luke and two others were the only ones left standing where they had been. "All those I called, follow Sergeant Donnel to the registry. The three of you, board the shuttle and return to Theed."

That was it- no explanation or reason for their exclusion. Luke felt like the wind had been knocked out of him and he choked down several gulps of air as excruciating disappointment squeezed his lungs like a garbage crusher. The other two rejects looked similarly crestfallen, but they obediently picked their packs up from where they had set them and trudged back into the waiting shuttle. But Luke was frozen in place, his mind worryingly blank and incapable of producing his next step. His hesitation was instantly noted by the officers, judging by the scowls he received. Donnel was the one address him, his voice clipped and deep, well used to shouting at students.

"You heard the Captain, boy! On the shuttle now!"

For one hazy moment, Luke saw a tusken roaring at him instead of the tall man, and he could almost feel the recently healed fractures in his arms ache with alarm. But he blinked, and the moment was broken, and his mouth was working without his input. "Sir, why aren't I allowed into the academy?" The honorific felt thick on his tongue, but it clearly wasn't enough to sway the officers. If anything, questioning them seemed to only further sour their view of him.

"You thought you could get by with an empty and partly fabricated file?" Donnel seemed to take this as a personal offense, though that might just have been his general manner of being angry at something. "No referrals from imperial personal, no official background in flying, no formal education and a clearly false listed age! You have nothing we want in our academy, and if you continue to refuse to board that shuttle then I shall very happily incapacitate you myself and let security hold you for a few days before shipping you back to your sand pit of a home!"

Luke, though still recovering from several injuries, the deaths of his only family, the departure from the only planet he had known his whole life and the panic of being denied his last chance at his dream, was never one to be cowed by bullies. Fresh resolve straightened his back and he met the sergeant's eyes levelly. "I don't have an official background in flying, but I can out-fly everyone else here."

The challenge actually seemed to surprise Donnel, as well as the other officers, who were most likely used to family connections being drawn out rather than boasts of skill. The sergeant's face reddened beneath his already ruddy visage, and only imperial doctrine restrained him from clocking Luke across the jaw. He took another moment to muster himself, but before he could, Jurgsen smoothly interjected himself into the argument.

"Mister Lars, you are aware that you are challenging some of the Navy's best and brightest while you are fresh from a backstation planet and are below the age limit of legal adulthood?" He sounded almost mocking, though it might also have been interest. Luke warily broke eye contact with Donnel and turned his head face the captain.

"Yes, sir. I'm willing to fly against anyone you want if it can get me into the academy."

Lieutenant Krelle cocked his head slightly, appraising the former moisture farmer with an predatory look. "It _has_ been some time since an example was made of a young buck trying to show off to us. Perhaps it would be a good lesson for the new recruits to see what they need to avoid."

Jurgsen was silent for a moment longer before speaking without looking away from the brazen youth. "Lieutenant Grav'na, do you perhaps have a recommendation in this matter?"

The flight instructor hadn't even been looking at Luke this whole time, but now that his judgment was requested he turned his mismatched eyes on the boy and answered without pause. "Personally, sir, I see no reason not to let him attempt to do as he says. If he fails, it is as Krelle says and he will be a fitting example for the others, but if he succeeds then he would be a valuable addition to the academy."

The hint of support almost floored Luke, but he kept his face as neutral as he could, not daring to hope and risk an even greater let down. All eyes were on Captain Jurgsen as he mulled over his decision, completely cool and professional as he did so. Just when the tension felt like it might break Luke in half, the older man looked to Grav'na without a change in emotion. "I trust you can find a suitable challenger for young mister Lars?" The native nabooian nodded without comment. "Then I shall allow this unorthodox audition to proceed."

There were murmurs among the recruits, but they were quickly shepherded off by an irate Donnel. Grav'na called for Luke to follow him as he turned on his heel and strode briskly toward a slightly more aesthetically appealing building. Luke followed hurriedly, glancing backwards to see that Jurgsen was in a discussion with Krelle, but the Lieutenant was peering over his superior's shoulder, straight at Luke, once more looking like some kind of serpent eyeing its prey.

Skywalker felt a disquieting turn in his stomach and quickly faced forward, forced to speed up in order to keep pace with the Flight Lieutenant. He couldn't help the question that sprang from his mouth. "Uh, Sir? Why are you giving me a chance? The other officers wanted to boot me out without a second thought."

Grav'na didn't slow down in the slightest or even look at Luke. "You should know that this is much less of a chance than believe it to be. You will be entering a simulated flight and competing against one of the academy's oldest records set by an esteemed graduate some years ago. I do not expect you to succeed."

"Then...why let me do it?"

"My reasons are my own, and you will leave it at that." What Grav'na didn't say, would never say, was that Luke had reminded him of another boy, several years younger but also with that defiant spark, and who had proven to be a natural and gifted pilot despite his inexperience. In fact, it could be said that that boy had played a tremendous role in saving Naboo nearly thirty years before from the Trade Federation's invasion...

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She ran headlong into a wall, the price she paid for hopping out from under the path of a hover-cart laden with the boxed up supplies the technicians were trying to store away. Grunting, she pushed away from the permacrete and continued at breakneck pace down the hallway, dodging around other rebels as they readied for the imminent battle. They had only received word of the Imperial strike force headed to their little asteroid station ten minutes before and everyone was frantically attempting to cram a half hour's worth of protocol into a severely inadequate third of that estimation.

A stack of rectangular munitions crates were disturbed from their formation and crashed to the ground, the heavy impacts joined by metallic _ticks_ as a score of power cells escaped from a loose lid and scattered across the floor. People were shouting as a few tried to stop and scoop the cells back into their container while everyone else pushed past, most carrying loads of their own. She just raced past, slipping around and between the panicked soldiers. She had almost reached the command center when there came several tremors, quakes in the floor and walls, only just ahead of muted explosions that announced the imperials breaching the three entrances.

Then there was only the sound of war; blaster fire, shouted commands, screams of pain. She clenched her teeth and tried to mute the cacophony of death as she hurriedly accessed the base's main computer core. She had her job, and she needed to follow it through or else even more of her compatriots would die, gunned down by the great machine that was the Imperial Army. Data flashed across the screens far faster than any human mind could decipher, but she ignored it entirely and just focused on what she was inputting, knowing that her commands needed to be precise in order for them to be carried out by the finicky system.

A security monitor displayed on another screen briefly caught her attention. She couldn't say why, but she had felt compelled to look just in time to watch one stormtrooper pull another out of the firing line of several rebels, which shouldn't have been possible when both imperials had been rounding a corner and couldn't have had time to spot the threat. The first one must have had some incredible luck, or else some freakishly accurate hunches.

Discarding the event from her mind, she redoubled her focus on the task at hand: replacing the stored data they had been accumulating with bogus information that was hidden behind scramblers and encryption algorithms cooked up by some sleep deprived techie, a ruse that would hopefully keep Imperial Intelligence distracted for a few days before they realized that they had retrieved junk and allowing for a discreet data worm to infiltrate a few systems for later use. It had been a bitter pill to swallow, knowing that ultimately they were to serve as a sacrifice for a more long term goal, but neither she nor the rest of the stationed rebels had tried to back out. The Rebellions was depressingly used to salvaging a small win from a loss.

More explosions and the blaster fire was closer, creeping toward her at irregular intervals as the opposing forces traded potshots. Her allies were dwindling by the second while the Empire's just kept coming in a continuous wave of shiny white armor and brutal efficiency. She had maybe two minutes before she was overrun, and the progress bar at the bottom of the screen seemed to be slowing down just to taunt her. A quick glance at a holographic display of the base showed that two of the stormtrooper squads were steadily advancing while a third was progressing significantly slower, their hallway taking them around more turns and corners than the others. If she finished in time, she could feasibly go that way and make it to one of the maintenance hatches that would provide a quick exit.

Tearing her eyes from the display -and the little red dots that were rapidly erasing the blue ones- she almost hesitated when she saw that the progress bar had unexpectedly zoomed across the screen and changed to a green confirmation banner. Huh. Maybe computers weren't always trying to make her life as miserable as possible.

She took off running again, drawing her blaster pistol as she went. The base was lost and nearly all of her people were dead, but she wasn't the kind to wallow in fear or anger, shunting those emotions to the side while she focused on surviving to another day. Time enough for tears when she got back to command and submitted the numbers.

Slipping into a side room, she threw her blaster on a heavy, gray desk that was flush against the far wall and wrapped her fingers around a corner of the ugly slab of metal, heaving with her weight, deceptively slender arms taut from the effort. Jerkily, it moved toward her, clearing a space behind it to reveal the escape hatch which led to the minuscule garage. She would grab a speeder bike and make towards the hidden hangar several kilometers away, hopefully making it to one of the transports before the-

"Halt!"

More from shock than the order, her body froze in place, dread chilling her core. Literally within centimeters of her blaster, but it might as well have been on the other side of the system for the good it would do her. The stormtrooper didn't say anything else, but she could hear him- the sections of his armor shifting with every movement and the creak of hardened rubber boot soles on the icy floor. She waited for several, impossibly long seconds, but still no further commands were issued.

Steeling herself, she straightened up and turned, slowly, on her heel to face the trooper. He was standing there in the open doorway, as emotive as a statue and training the sights of his E-11 on her center of mass, but seemingly as frozen as she was. It seemed a ridiculous stand-off, what with him the only one with a weapon, but still neither of them dared to move. Something heavy was in the air, making every breath more noticeable than any taken before. Despite complete lack of identification, she knew in her gut that this was the very same trooper she had seen saving his partner from certain death.

The muzzle of the rifle dipped, now aimed somewhere around her waist, but he wasn't aiming any more. She held her breath, making her heartbeat loud in her ears. Then she turned back around and slipped out through the hatch, not daring to let out her breath in case it shattered this hazy feeling of _expectation_ and she found herself with a blaster bolt in the back.

For his part, the trooper didn't fully lower his rifle until his helmet comm chirped the "All Clear" signal. The base was theirs, but he didn't quite feel the triumph that he probably should have. What had possessed him to let the woman go? Why had he blatantly disobeyed his orders for those handful of seconds?

Alarmed and confused, he made his way back to the remnants of his squad as they checked all the rooms in the hall for other survivors, finding only several more of the previously concealed escape hatches which proved to be self-sealing upon use. Twelve minutes later and the operation was complete, and his Omega Exercise was a commendable success. Nobody had witnessed his slip, and there were no cameras to record it, so despite his feelings of disquiet he had managed to get away with possible treason against the Empire.

On the troop transport headed back to the academy through hyperspace, one of his squad mates clapped him on the shoulder. "Lighten up man, we did it! We're probably going to graduate at the head of the year!"

Nodding mutely, he reached up and pulled his helmet off to allow his eyes a break from the nauseating 3D optics. The air, though already stale from the recycler, was refreshing on his face.

"Hey now, you know we aren't supposed to remove any of our armor until back at the barracks...er..."

"Katarn," he supplied, running a gloved hand through his sweaty hair. "Kyle Katarn, and somehow the dress code just doesn't seem worth worrying about at the moment."

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**AN:**_ Okaaaaaayyyyy..._

_ So, the rage hasn't exactly subsided yet, but I am going to try and channel it through writing rather than passivity. I feel I should address a pertinent point that will probably preempt many questions I and this story may get in the future, so here it is:_

**NO. DISNEY. BULLSHIT. ALLOWED.**

_ Obviously, I feel quite strongly about this._

_ While I _do_ have an entire rant about why this is, I will not force it upon any of you because A) you might actually be a fan of Disney owned Star Wars in which case I simply do not want to talk to you and will ignore any comments you make because you could just as easily not have read this story and thus are attempting to antagonize me further, B) it's pretty dickish to sneak in heavily opinionated rants into your stories just because you mistake readers' interest in what you write for permission to unload all your "real life troubles" onto them, and C) I have a certain "_Bleach"_ fanfic where I can let loose and swear at you guys, so I'll leave it at that._

_ Good day._

_ ((For Horrible))_


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